


my name on the back though

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: Big Time Adolescence (2020)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Canon Compliant, Clothing Kink, First Kisses, Get together fic, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Marriage Proposal, M/M, Pining, Post Movie, Reconciliation, Recovery, References to Car Crash, References to Suicide, Sobriety, physical injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:08:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23862064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: Before everything goes to shit, Mo ends up with a sweatshirt of Zeke's. Somehow, the sweatshirt is what leads them back to each other.
Relationships: Monroe "Mo" Harris/Zeke Presanti
Comments: 6
Kudos: 50





	my name on the back though

**Author's Note:**

> lyric from 'the break up' by mgk bc it just gives me Many Feelings. i also love the idea of zeke truly having been good enough at baseball to get a varsity sweatshirt, and mo stealing it. plus, i had to write smut with the sweatshirt, cuz duh
> 
> big thanks to han for beta'ing! 
> 
> enjoy!

He’s three months into his six months of community service when he finds it again. It’s shoved in the back of his closet and he only comes across it because his parents are making him clean out some of his older clothes. He’s surrounded by bags—one for trash, one for donations, and a meager pile of stuff he’s keeping. As he holds the hoodie up, his first instinct is to toss it into the trash bag. 

The anger is like a flash in a pan: hot but gone in seconds. He lays the hoodie out in his lap and traces a finger over the cracked font on that back that reads **_PRESANTI_** in the high school’s trademark blue. Below that is what used to be Zeke’s team number, **_17_**. Mo knows on the front of the shirt is the school’s crest, the design peeling worse than on the back. 

Mo sits there for a long moment, gray fabric clutched in his hands. He hasn’t seen this sweatshirt in a couple months—when Zeke had hotboxed the car, actually. When Mo’s parents had found out about his stupid fucking tattoo, because he was stoned out of his mind. Mo had been so angry at Zeke, for not listening, _never_ listening to him that Mo had shoved the sweatshirt in the closet and forgotten about it. 

It’s kind of funny, he thinks, since the whole reason he got the sweatshirt in the first place was because Zeke wouldn’t stop smoking. 

* * *

> “Dude, I can’t go home like this,” Mo complains, fiddling with the hem of his sweatshirt, “I _reek_.” 
> 
> Zeke tilts his head back and sniffs the air then shrugs. “Nah, you’re fine, man.”
> 
> Mo’s parents already know Zeke smokes pot, but this is a whole other level. Mo smells like he took a stroll through a dispensary, even though he hasn’t so much as touched a joint. Zeke smokes normally, but Mo had walked into his house to the stench of some _seriously_ dank weed laid out on a new rolling tray. From there, Zeke and Nick had just spent the last several hours getting totally blitzed. 
> 
> “My dad is gonna get suspicious, he’ll totally think I smoked.” Mo glares at Zeke even though he knows he’s mostly being ignored. Zeke’s too far gone to really give a shit, probably; there’s a reason Holly isn’t around today, and Mo’s starting to think he would’ve been better off staying at home. 
> 
> “What, you want something to wear?” Zeke says with an exaggerated sigh. He heaves himself off the couch and only stumbles a little bit; Mo’s not sure how one person can smoke _that_ much pot and still function, but Zeke makes it look almost graceful. Zeke pushes past Mo to the kitchen, then to his bedroom in the back.
> 
> Mo shifts from foot to foot while he waits; Nick’s still smoking and trying to do some tricks, totally in his own little world. Mo’s not even sure Nick knows he was around today. He’s watching Nick blow a smoke ring and then try to suck it in through his nose when Zeke returns.
> 
> “Here,” he says, tossing the hoodie at Mo. “Can’t do shit about your pants, though. Short motherfucker.” Zeke ruffles Mo’s hair and wanders back to the couch, falling onto it and disrupting Nick’s next trick. 
> 
> Mo holds the sweatshirt between his legs as he tugs his own off and tosses it onto the nearby chair. “Can you wash that for me?” He asks with a nod at the chair. He pulls on the new sweatshirt and is hit with the scent of Zeke’s cologne and the universal smell of a musty closet. It’s disorienting as he pulls his head through the collar and shakes his hair out of his face.
> 
> Zeke waves a flippant hand. “Sure, Momo.” He’s got a new joint in his hand, already bringing it to his lips. Mo needs to leave or else he’ll need to borrow _another_ sweatshirt from Zeke. “Looks good on you,” Zeke adds with a crooked grin.
> 
> Mo doesn’t even look down at himself, he just flips Zeke the bird and grabs his bag from beside the door. “Don’t forget to wash my shirt, asshole.”
> 
> “Whatever you say, Momo!” Zeke hollers as Mo slips outside and shuts the door behind him.
> 
> His first taste of fresh air is like a slap to the face; sometimes he thinks he’s used to the stench and lingering taste of weed, and then he breathes clean air and can’t fathom why anyone wants to smoke so fucking much. He shakes his head again, this time to clear his thoughts, and swings his bag over his shoulder. He digs his keys out of his jeans pocket and catches a whiff of pot again.
> 
> “Aw, fuck.” He’d hoped, inanely, that maybe swapping his sweatshirt would get rid of the pot stench. It’s definitely not as strong now, but it’s still clinging to his jeans. He rushes to his car and throws his bag in the passenger seat before rifling through the glovebox. There, underneath his registration and the manual for the car, is an old and slightly dusty bottle of cologne. Mo’s not even sure where it’s from—it might be leftover from when Kate had this car. 
> 
> He spritzes the cologne once in the air and takes a long inhale; it’s woodsy and spicy, comforting and faintly familiar. Deeming it acceptable, he sprays his pants maybe a little excessively. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and at least he definitely doesn’t smell like pot now.
> 
> Satisfied, he finally clambers into his car and starts to anxious drive home. He steers with one hand and plays idly with the string of the hoodie to take some of the edge off as he drives. It’s not like his parents wouldn’t believe that Zeke just got too stoned and _that’s_ why Mo smells like weed, but it doesn’t exactly help with the whole “Mo’s parents hating Zeke” thing. Mo’s been trying to curb it, get his parents to admit that Zeke isn’t all bad, but sometimes it feels like a losing battle.
> 
> It turns out he shouldn’t have worried, because both his parents are out when he gets home. There’s a note on the kitchen island letting him know they went out for a last-minute grocery trip and they’ll be back in a bit. Letting out a sigh of relief, Mo bolts for the stairs. 
> 
> He’s out of his pants by the time he’s stumbling into his bedroom. He’s about to keep stripping down when he catches sight of himself in his full-length mirror in the corner of his room. He stops cold, finally looking at the sweatshirt hanging from his body. 
> 
> It’s gray, which he’d clocked when Zeke had first tossed it to him, but the front is emblazoned with a rich blue logo. The high school’s logo, to be precise, surrounded by the words **_HIGH SCHOOL VARSITY BASEBALL_**. Swallowing, Mo turns and looks over his shoulder for a glance at the back.
> 
> **_PRESANTI  
>  17_ **
> 
> Mo blinks. Sure, Zeke has mentioned he was good at baseball back in the day, but he never mentioned being _varsity_ good. He can’t even picture it—in all honesty, Mo was pretty sure Zeke was lying about ever being on the team at all. But clearly he was, and was good enough to get a fucking varsity sweatshirt. 
> 
> Mo has so many questions and is about to dive for his phone, still in his jeans, when he hears a door slam downstairs. 
> 
> “Monroe, we’re home!” his dad hollers. “Come help with groceries!”
> 
> “Be right down!” Mo shouts back before pulling off Zeke’s hoodie and scrambling for another one. He wanted to throw his jeans in the wash but he’ll just have to save that for later. He throws Zeke’s hoodie onto his bed before, after a second’s consideration, pushing it under the covers. Just so his parents don’t see, and ask why he had to borrow Zeke’s hoodie in the first place.

* * *

Mo smiles ruefully down at the hoodie. Zeke never asked for it back and Mo wasn’t ready to give it up; he wore it to bed, a lot. He took some pictures in it, sometimes, on some kind of half-hearted hope that Zeke might want to see them. He’d jerked off in the hoodie, even, clinging to the faint scent of Zeke in the fabric. Then Zeke had gotten him stoned as fuck and everything had gone to shit and now Mo’s sitting here, months later, with tears in his eyes. 

“Stupid fucking sweatshirt,” he mutters. He twists and looks at the donation bag behind him. It’s already about half-full of old shirts and other things that are too small for him or just things he never wears. He looks again at the trash bag but quickly decides if nothing else, he can’t just throw it out.

Sighing to himself, almost disappointed in himself, Mo pulls the sweatshirt on. It’s soft, well-worn. Comfortable. It’s nearing summer so it’s realistically too warm to be wearing a sweatshirt while he rifles through his closet, but...Mo doesn’t really care. 

He only takes it off before he goes downstairs for dinner. Just like before, he shoves it under his blankets so his parents won’t see. That night, after dinner and a little family time spent in front of the television, Mo crawls into bed and cradles the sweatshirt against his chest.

Not for the first time, he looks at his phone and considers texting Zeke. He should probably count himself lucky that his parents didn’t take his phone; they don’t even, like, check his messages like Stacey’s parents do nowadays. Mo knows Zeke’s number is still in his phone, even though he hasn’t texted it in months. He deleted their message thread the same day he got expelled, and he deleted any messages Zeke tried sending him after that. Zeke stopped sending messages after a month of radio silence. 

Mo’s fingers twitch with the urge to reach for his phone. He knows there’s no point—Zeke hasn’t changed, he’s sure of that. Maybe Zeke has a job now, or a new girlfriend, but none of that means Zeke isn’t the same dipshit dopehead he was when Mo spent every waking moment with him. 

Mo rolls over and puts his back to his phone, but keeps the sweatshirt cradled in his arms. He wishes he could say he doesn’t know why he’s clinging to the stupid thing like it holds the answers of the universe, but, well, he _does_ know. It’s really the only thing he has left of Zeke. The clothes he’d worn the night of the house party had been left on Zeke’s doorstep without a note. Mo’s never borrowed clothes from Zeke except for those two times. 

And...the sweatshirt shows that a different side of Zeke was possible, or at least it used to be. Sure, it’s not a side Mo ever really got to know. It existed, though, and that’s easy to cling to. The idea that the person Mo got swept up in wasn’t a total asshole, the entire time. That Zeke used to be nicer, used to care more, whatever. The idea that Mo fell in love with someone who was, at one point, not a total screw up—that’s what’s comforting.

* * *

He almost tells Zeke, that day at Salty Dog, _“hey, I have your old baseball sweatshirt. Do you want it back?”_ He almost says, _“hey, come to my place after you’re off and I’ll give you your sweatshirt, that one you loaned me almost a year ago.”_ He almost pleads, _“Show me you’re different so I don’t have to feel like shit for still being in love with you.”_

He does none of those things. Instead, he dodges Zeke’s invite to hang out with noncommittal answers, and he drives away from Salty Dog feeling weirdly hurt yet weirdly at peace. He glances in the rearview mirror and watches Zeke light up before sitting on the curb, and the ache in Mo’s chest grows. 

He still doesn’t throw the sweatshirt out or donate it. Maybe because he’s a fucking idiot. Maybe because he’s holding out some weird kind of hope for something that won’t happen. Mo doesn’t even know anymore.

* * *

He wears the sweatshirt to school, his first day of junior year. It’s still too big on him, because Zeke was taller and broader than him. The sleeves hang close to his knuckles and the hem of the sweatshirt falls past his belt. His parents don’t seem to notice the design on the front when he sits down for breakfast that morning, and his backpack hides the **_PRESANTI_** on the back. 

He doesn’t mind his new school. He only attended for the last couple months of his sophomore year but it was a mellow enough switch. No one really seemed to bat an eye at the arrival of a new kid with only four months left in the semester, and he’s even managed to make a couple friends. He still flies pretty much under the radar, and for that he’s grateful. 

No one comments on his sweatshirt until lunch, when his friend Davey sits beside him and claps a hand on his back. “Thought your name was Harris,” Davey says, genuinely confused.

“It is,” Mo replies before taking a bite of his sandwich. 

“Who’s Presanti, then?” Davey asks with another slap on Mo’s back. “Your boyfriend?”

Mo chokes on his bite of sandwich and shakes his head as he coughs. “No,” he croaks, “fuck, no. He’s just this guy I used to know. It’s a comfy sweatshirt.”

“Uh huh,” Davey says, “you sure?”

Mo shoves at his friend playfully, painfully aware of his burning cheeks. “Yes, I’m sure, dick.” 

Davey holds up his hands in surrender. “Alright, man. Just seems kinda gay to take your best bud’s sweatshirt and wear it to school but hey, what do I know? Not like _I’m_ a big old gay or nothing.” 

Mo snorts and shoves at Davey again. “S’nothing,” he says one more time, “it’s just a hoodie.”

“Dude,” Davey chides, “it’s never _just_ a hoodie.” Dave shakes his head. “Such a baby queer, I have so much to teach you.”

Mo rolls his eyes. 

* * *

He doesn’t stop wearing the sweatshirt to school, though. It _is_ comfortable. Light enough to wear with a t-shirt so he doesn’t get too warm, and heavy enough to pair with a long-sleeve tee if he needs something a little warmer. It doesn’t bulk up under his nicer coats and it never stops being out of this world soft, even when he washes it. 

One day, near Thanksgiving break, a girl stops him in the hallway. Mo doesn’t know her—he doesn’t know a lot of people, honestly—but he stops anyway. She smiles at him and Mo nervously smiles back. She’s pretty and that alone is enough to make Mo’s palms sweat.

“Hey!” The girl says after a beat of awkward silence. “So, like, your sweatshirt.”

Mo blinks. He looks down at the front, almost wondering if he got a stain on it or something. “Yeah?” He asks slowly, “what about it?”

“Do you, like, know Zeke Presanti?” The girl tucks her hair behind her ear and Mo’s palms sweat worse.

“Why?” He leans away a bit, cautious and uncertain. 

“I heard he doesn’t mind buying drugs or alcohol if people pay him,” she says, “and I’ve got a party coming up and I was wondering if you knew if he still, like, did that? Someone said he got in a car accident so I didn’t know if he’d still be game to, like, supply the party, you know?” 

Mo’s heartbeat thuds heavily in his ears. “He got in a car accident? When?” 

The girl shrugs. “I don’t know, man, like a month ago or something? I just heard it from Annaliese who heard it from Jenny who knew this one girl’s sister that apparently used to sleep with him.”

Mo rubs a hand over his face. “No, uh, I don’t know if he’d be down to supply your party, or whatever. He and I don’t talk anymore.”

She stares at him, unimpressed. Her glossy lips are pursed. “You’re wearing his sweatshirt, but you don’t talk to him?”

“It’s just a nice sweatshirt,” Mo protests, “it’s not, like, some _thing_.”

“Uh huh…” She still grins at him but now it’s more polite—verging into that ‘you seem kinda wack’ territory that Mo unfortunately knows all too well from his old school. “I’m gonna go, then. Thanks!”

She turns and leaves and Mo immediately fumbles for his phone. He pulls up Facebook, and then the local news page and starts to frantically scroll. It takes way too much scrolling past things like other motor vehicle accidents and notices about the local farmer’s market before he finally finds what he’s looking for:

_ MVA on highway 9 heading north, one car collision, no fatalities. Police are on the scene and driver is being airlifted to nearest hospital. _

He clicks the link and forces himself to take in the words. He manages to catch _Isaac Presanti_ and _under the influence of drugs and/or alcohol_ and _car impacted with telephone pole_. The only thing that keeps him from dropping his phone is Davey appearing in front of him and taking it from him.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Davey jokes as he looks at the phone. Mo watches as his friend’s eyes widen the longer he reads. “Well, fuck, I guess you kinda did, huh?” Davey looks at him and passes his phone back. “Did you...did you know about this?”

Mo shakes his head. “I had no idea,” he rasps. His heart is still hammering and a headache is starting to pulse behind his eyes. He feels dizzy. “I don’t usually check this page so I never heard about it.”

Davey stares at him for a long beat. “Maybe you should call him, dude.” 

Mo opens his mouth but he doesn’t know what to say. He hasn’t seen Zeke since that day at the Salty Dog. Nearly four months ago. Zeke had never texted him to hang out, like he knew it was a pipedream just like Mo did. They haven’t really, properly spoken since that night after the house party, almost seven months ago.

“I think I need to go to the nurse,” Mo eventually says when his next breath makes his chest hurt. He reaches out and Davey puts an arm around his waist to keep him upright, walking him down the hall to the nurse. Mo’s breathing doesn’t get better as they go, but he doesn’t get worse either. If nothing else, the article doesn’t mention anything about Zeke dying in the hospital or something else just as awful.

Davey gets him to the nurse’s office and the nurse sits him on a cot with a thermometer in his ear. Davey leaves for class when the nurse shoos him away. 

“Your temperature is fine,” she says a few minutes later. 

“I was having a, uh, a panic attack,” Mo manages to say. “I couldn’t breathe.”

The nurse ‘ah’s and nods. “I’m going to take your blood pressure,” she says as she grabs the cuff off the wall. Another few minutes later, she announces, “Everything looks good. Your heart rate is a little elevated, but not overly so. Do you want to lay down for a few minutes?”

“Please?” Mo asks. 

The nurse smiles at him. “I’ll write you a note for your class. Take your time, okay?”

“Thanks.” Mo finally tips to the side and draws his knees to his chest. His heart hurts a little less and it’s easier to breathe, now. He wants to reach for his phone and text Zeke, but he doesn’t even know what to say.

_ Hey, heard you were in a car accident. Hope you’re okay. _

Mo winces slightly and shakes his head; it sounds cringey even in his thoughts. 

_ I know we haven’t talked in a while but I just wanted to see how you were doing. _

More casual, but then Mo would have to act like he doesn’t know about the accident when it’s really the whole reason he’s reaching out at all.

Mo sighs and presses his face against the paper wrapping over the cot. It’s crinkly and annoying but it’s cool against his cheeks. He sits there a few minutes longer, about halfway through the period, and when he sits up, he knows what he needs to do. 

* * *

He doesn’t really consider the fact that Zeke might’ve moved until he’s already on Zeke’s street. He grips the steering wheel tighter and forces himself to relax. If Zeke has moved, maybe the people living in his place will have a forwarding address. If Zeke has moved, it just means Mo will have to nut up and message him, which honestly he probably should’ve done in the first place. Who the fuck just shows up after seven months of no conversation just to be like “hey, heard you almost died, hope you’re cool!” 

Mo groans as he rolls up on Zeke’s house. There’s no car in the driveway. _But_ , Mo thinks, _if he totaled it in the crash, he probably hasn’t been able to buy a new one yet._ Mo pulls into the driveway and stares at the windows on the porch. They were always open back in the day, but now the windows are closed and the blinds are drawn. 

Mo swallows. He kills the engine and clambers out of his car on unsteady legs. He’s still got the fucking sweatshirt on and he’s fiddling with the sleeves like some kind of child. He stands up straighter as he reaches the porch and lifts his shaking hand to knock once, twice, three times. Loud and firm, no fun tune. Simple. 

For a beat, there’s nothing but the sound of Mo’s own heavy breathing. He’s about to knock again, or maybe turn around and hightail it back to his car, when he hears a crash, and a loud,  _“fuck!”_

Then the door wrenches open, and Zeke stands there in all his shirtless glory. 

“Oh,” Mo says as his brain promptly short circuits. 

“Oh,” Zeke echoes, “Momo.”

“Yep.” Mo swallows and keeps his eyes focused on Zeke’s face. It’s not all that hard, especially since Zeke’s hair is no longer blond but instead trimmed short and brown; his hair looks soft and freshly-washed. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Zeke, on the other hand, is clearly looking Mo up and down. Mo knows the moment Zeke clocks what he’s wearing because he announces it. “Is that my sweatshirt?”

“Can I come inside?” Mo says instead of answering. 

“Oh, totally, yeah.” Zeke staggers awkwardly backwards and it’s then that Mo realizes there’s a cast on one of his legs, going up to his knee. His sweats are bunched up around the top.

“Fuck, you’re hurt, you should sit down,” comes tumbling out of Mo’s mouth and Zeke, of all things, laughs at him in response.

“Nah, man, it’s fine. Barely hurts now, unless I fuckin’ biff it. Which I do, a lot. Cuz I’m an idiot, ya know. I don’t use my crutches as much as I probably should” Zeke takes another unsteady step back and gestures for Mo to come inside. “You coming or not?”

Mo steps inside and wanders into the living room that used to be so familiar to him. Behind him, he catches Zeke’s sharp inhale of breath but tries to pay it no mind. The living room hasn’t really changed all that much: same posters, same furniture, same strange amber lighting. The main thing Mo notices is the lack of beer bottles or cans strewn around. The aforementioned crutches are leaning against one wall. The place looks cleaner than Mo’s ever seen it. 

“How ya been, Mo?” Zeke asks as he shuts the door. “You want something to drink?”

Mo turns and watches Zeke hobble his way back to the kitchen. The kitchen, with its same furniture and out-of-date countertops, but without the vodka bottles or stacks of rolling trays taking up space. He follows a hesitant pace behind and stares as Zeke gets two glasses out. Zeke pulls orange juice out of the fridge, but doesn’t dig out a bottle of vodka or a couple addies. 

Mo swallows. “Thanks,” he says as Zeke passes him the glass.

Zeke shrugs as he takes a sip. “How ya been?” He asks again, almost sounding...hopeful, maybe. 

“I heard you were in a car accident and I got so worried about you I had a panic attack and missed half my fucking math class and I came here right after school let out, and my parents don’t know and they’re probably gonna kill me if I’m not home by five but I needed to see you.”

Mo chases his word vomit with the entire glass of orange juice and Zeke is still staring at him as Mo pants for air. Zeke blinks but his eyes are wide, eyebrows high on his face, mouth open in surprise. 

“Uh,” Zeke says.

“Fuck, I should go. This is weird.” Mo sets the glass on the coffee table and almost trips over himself to get to the door. He nearly makes it, until a hand catches in the hood of his sweatshirt and yanks him closer. He goes stumbling back and when he turns around again, he’s almost nose to nose with Zeke. “Fuck,” he murmurs again. 

“Sorry,” Zeke says, taking a step back, “I just...I just didn’t want you to leave again.”

Mo’s heart thuds painfully. “Okay.”

“How about you sit down, huh? Is that cool? I’ll get some more juice. You want some crackers or something? I got Ritz.” 

“Uh, sure.” Mo manages to wander over to the couch that he used to spend so much time on. It’s lumpy as ever, but the discomfort is somehow comforting in its familiarity. He can’t help staring at Zeke as Zeke refills both their glasses of juice and grabs a sleeve of Ritz from a cabinet. Mo can’t remember the last time Zeke had actual food in his cupboards. 

Zeke passes him his glass and the crackers, then sits at the opposite end of the couch. He brings his uninjured leg, his left one, onto the cushion so he can better face Mo. “So, yeah, I got in a car accident like, a month and a half ago. I was drinking and driving. Stoned too, cuz, ya know. _Duh_.”

Mo, in spite of everything, laughs.

Zeke gives him a small smile. “I, uh, was going twenty over the speed limit and swerved into a telephone pole. Don’t remember a lot from there but I broke my leg,” he gestures to the cast, “got a wicked concussion, broke a couple ribs. Oh, and my nose.” He rubs at his nose, and Mo realizes the bridge is just slightly crooked. “Since it wasn’t my first offense being intoxicated while driving, I got my license revoked. Not that it matters since I totaled my car, but ya know, still blows.

“I’m going to court-ordered treatment right now, AA meetings and shit like that. Been clean since that night.” 

Mo hasn’t even opened the crackers yet. He’s not sure he could make his hands work well enough to. “Holy fucking shit.”

“I know right?” Zeke laughs but it’s not as flippant as it could be—it’s almost hysterical, disbelieving. “I can’t fucking believe I survived. Definitely wasn’t trying to.”

It takes all of his self-restraint not to just drop the juice and crackers on the floor but he manages. He sets them both on the coffee table and turns to Zeke, scooting closer. 

Zeke looks taken aback by the sudden movement, and he sets his juice aside too. “I’m getting help for that, too,” Zeke says, softer. “Therapy, all that, I’m working on it.” Zeke taps the side of his head. “Did you know that I’m fucking bonkers insane, dude? Cuz I had no fucking clue.”

When Mo laughs, it comes out wet and strained. “I actually did, yeah.” He shuffles closer still and when he lifts his arm, Zeke mirrors him.

They were never big on hugging, not after Mo hit thirteen and it somehow became uncool. The closest they got to physical affection was Zeke giving him noogies and weird bro handshakes. The last time they were remotely this close was when Zeke put his arm around Mo and said, “You’ll be okay, man.” It had felt reassuring in the moment, but it didn’t last.

This, though—this is different. Mo wraps his arms around Zeke’s neck and Zeke’s arms wrap around Mo’s waist. It’s not a crushing hug, but it’s close. Zeke’s face is buried against Mo’s neck and all Mo can smell is the clean scent of Zeke’s shampoo. They stay like that for a long moment. In the end, they don’t move even when they start to speak again.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Mo says. 

“Me too,” Zeke says. “Thanks for checking up on me.”

Mo shrugs. Every time Zeke speaks, it vibrates against his skin and sends shivers down his spine. “I’ve missed you,” he admits softly. “And when I saw that article, I just…”

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m okay.” Zeke finally leans back to give Mo a smile. “I missed you too, Momo. I actually wanted to call you when I got out of the hospital, but I lost my phone in the crash.”

“Oh.” Mo’s glad now that he didn’t try texting first. He would’ve gone crazy waiting for a response that never would’ve come. For a split second, he wonders what he would’ve done if he’d gotten a text from Zeke out of the blue—he probably would’ve answered it, jumped on the chance to talk to Zeke again.

“I’ve got a new one, though. I just couldn’t remember your number and you know I fuckin’ hate Facebook so I, uh, just didn’t reach out. But I got a new phone, new number. You know, if you want it. Or whatever.”

Mo nods without hesitation. “I do, yeah.”

“Cool,” Zeke says, grinning wider. “You gonna tell me why you’re wearing my old varsity sweatshirt?” 

Mo’s face immediately starts to burn. “You gave it to me,” he replies, maybe a little petulant. “When my clothes smelled like pot. It was a year ago, or something.”

“Uh huh,” Zeke nods along, “and you just never gave it back?”

Mo purses his lips unhappily.

Zeke swallows and licks his lips and his next words come out less teasing, more nervous. “You’re wearing it even though we haven’t spoken in fucking months.” Zeke’s arms finally fall from holding Mo, but one hand lingers to toy with the hem of the sweatshirt. “What’s that about, huh?” 

Mo bites his bottom lip. “I think you know,” he says, voice wavering. 

“Tell me anyway.” Zeke tilts his head back slightly and Mo leans forward. 

The kiss is simple and sweet. Mo cups Zeke’s cheek and Zeke’s hand curls around Mo’s hip. They cling to each other as they kiss slowly until they break apart with a soft, wet _smack_. 

“Compelling information,” Zeke says, like an idiot.

Mo groans and rolls his eyes. He makes no move to get out of Zeke’s lap, though. Zeke’s hand flexes on his hip and he thumbs over the jut of Mo’s hip bone. 

“I didn’t realize how much I loved you till I fucked up and you weren’t hanging around here every day,” Zeke admits. “And I couldn’t even tell you cuz, like, that’s so shitty. Crawling back to you saying I love you when I just ruined your fucking life.”

“Yeah,” Mo breathes. He doesn’t know what else to say—it’s true, it would’ve been shitty. Mo would’ve slammed the door in Zeke’s face, probably, if Reuben didn’t do it first. 

“I always kinda thought you felt the same but, you know, it was too late.” 

“It’s not too late now,” Mo says. He shifts back a little bit and immediately misses the warmth when Zeke’s hand falls away from his body. “If you’re serious about staying clean.”

It’s the turning point he’s been looking for, the one he’s been _hoping_ for. That someday Zeke might go back to the kind of person who gets a varsity team hoodie—the thing Mo’s been deluding himself could happen. 

“Serious as a heart attack.” Zeke even pats the spot over his heart, his dumb shark tattoo. “It’s not gonna be easy, though, Mo. Like.” Zeke stops and for a moment, he’s so still it’s unsettling. Then his hands are moving, animated and anxious. “I still wanna get high, still wanna have a drink. Sometimes I’m an asshole about it. And it’s gonna take like another three weeks for my leg to heal, and they said I’m probably gonna have to have some kind of sinus surgery cuz the crash fucked up my nose. And I can’t drive anywhere for like, a whole year.”

“Stop trying to talk me out of this,” Mo cuts him off. “Do you know how many times I almost messaged you the last couple months?” Mo laughs, rolls his eyes at himself. “Too many times.”

“I’m glad you didn’t do it sooner.” Zeke holds up a hand, silencing Mo’s protest. “The crash fucking sucked. Being sober sucks, sometimes. Being on antidepressants kinda fucking sucks, but they help, too. And, y’know, without the crash I probably wouldn’t have gotten clean, so...hard to hate that, you get me?” 

Mo nods. “Yeah, yeah I get you.”

Zeke smiles, then. “Besides, if it hadn’t happened, I might not get to see you in my sweatshirt.”

Mo rolls his eyes. “It’s a comfortable sweatshirt, that’s _all_. Why does everyone think it _means_ something, jeez.”

“So you _don’t_ want me to kiss you?” Zeke’s already leaning forward into Mo’s space.

“I never said that,” Mo says as he meets Zeke halfway.

* * *

“Movie’s about to start!” Zeke hollers from the living room. 

“Just pause it!” Mo shouts back.

“Can’t find the remote, better get your ass out here!”

Mo rolls his eyes. He checks himself over in the mirror one last time before he slips out of the bathroom. He hurries through the kitchen and into the living room, but he doesn’t go immediately for the couch,

“Momo, what’re you waiting for?” Zeke asks without looking at him. “You said we could watch this movie for our anniversary.”

“I know, but I thought of a better present,” Mo says.

Zeke finally looks at him as he starts to say, “I thought we agreed on...no...presents…”

Mo shrugs. “I changed my mind.” He tugs at the hem of the sweatshirt so it almost covers his dick, hanging hot between his legs. “I can take it back, if you don’t like it.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Zeke says. He grabs the remote off the coffee table—and Mo rolls his eyes again—and pauses the movie. “Please get over here.”

Mo obeys easily, laughing as he slides into Zeke’s lap. “You ready for part two of your present?”

“You’re spoiling me, babe,” Zeke says, dazed. “What’s part two?” 

Rather than answering, Mo reaches between them to undo Zeke’s jeans. His cock springs forward almost instantly, hitting his stomach and smearing precome along his tattoos. Mo strokes him once, twice, enough to get his cock glistening wet, before adjusting in his lap so he can position himself over Zeke’s dick.

“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ,” Zeke pants as Mo starts to sink down. “Did you prep yourself in my sweatshirt?” He tips his head back like he can’t bear to watch as Mo drops down until Zeke’s cock is fully inside him. Mo snickers to himself and reaches out to drag Zeke’s attention back to him with a hand on his chin. “Christ, Mo.”

Mo swallows a snarky comment. The feeling of Zeke’s dick inside him is too much and takes the urge to snark right out of him. Instead, he leans in to kiss Zeke, moaning when Zeke’s hands land on his ass. He sways as Zeke plants his feet on the carpeted floor and yelps as Zeke starts thrusting up. He braces his hands on Zeke’s shoulders and pushes down to meet each thrust, his thighs beginning to burn far too fast. 

“You look so good, Momo, fuck.” Zeke leans forward and mouths along Mo’s neck, nipping at the sensitive skin. Mo knows his neck will be littered with little red marks and he’ll have to try and hide them from his parents but he doesn’t really care. 

He and Zeke have been together for a year now, and it’s been rocky, but it’s also been so fucking good. His parents still have reservations about it, even a year down the line. Zeke has good days and bad days when it comes to staying sober, but he got his year chip a few weeks back and Reuben even let him come over for a celebratory dinner. Mo wears the sweatshirt less, but only because he has his choice of Zeke’s sweatshirts to steal, including his dumb hockey jerseys and long sleeve tees, all of which are too big on Mo.

“Babe,” Zeke pants, “can I turn you around?”

Mo shivers. “Yeah, okay.” He slides up with the help of Zeke’s hands on his hips and whines softly at the loss of Zeke’s dick inside him. “How do you want me?” 

Instead of answering aloud, Zeke pulls at Mo’s hips until he’s on the couch, on his knees, hands clinging to the arm of the couch. Mo arches his back and waits impatiently for Zeke to get inside him again. A few moments pass before Mo looks over his shoulder to see Zeke stroking his cock, staring intently at Mo’s back.

“Does it really turn you on that much to see your name on my back?” Mo asks, swaying his hips from side to side. 

Zeke grins. “Fuck yeah it does.” He finally shuffles forward and starts to press his dick inside Mo again. It’s a slow glide, the fat mushroom tip pushing inside followed by the thick heat of Zeke’s cock. “Like you’re mine, Momo, all mine.”

Mo keens as Zeke slides in to the hilt. “I am,” he gasps out. “Always have been.”

Zeke falls forward, a line of heat against Mo’s back, and buries his face in Mo’s hair. “I know,” he says, muffled, “s’like the best fucking gift a guy could ask for.”

Whimpering, Mo reaches out and drags one of Zeke’s hands from his hip to Mo’s dick instead. Zeke curls his fingers around Mo’s cock and starts to stroke, a little dry and a little clumsy. For Mo, it’s perfect. He reaches back and knots a hand in Zeke’s hair to keep him close as he gets closer to the edge. 

“Wish I could see my name on you all the time,” Zeke groans in his ear. “Wearing it around your neck, sometimes I can’t believe you’re real.”

Mo shudders; he wants to respond, anything, but Zeke’s desperate tone, his relentless thrusts, his clumsy grip—it’s all too much. Mo cries out as he comes all over Zeke’s fingers. Clenching around Zeke’s cock only heightens the feeling, and Mo feels like his orgasm might never end. He almost wants it to go on forever.

What feels like an eternity later, Mo slumps forward against the arm of the couch and whines when Zeke pulls out.

“What’re you,” Mo starts, twisting to glance over his shoulder. Zeke’s stroking himself again and pushing the hem of the sweatshirt up to expose the small of Mo’s back, the curve of his ass. “Zeke,” Mo moans quietly. It hurts his neck to turn like this, but the image of Zeke’s pink cockhead flush up against Mo’s ass is a beautiful fucking sight. 

“Fuck,” Zeke grunts before he’s coming all over Mo’s back and ass. Milky white spurts from the tip and he smears it across Mo’s pale skin, first with the tip of his dick and then with his sticky fingers. He rubs it in until Mo’s skin is glistening from come, and it’d be gross if Mo weren’t so stupidly in love with Zeke.

“Not quite as good as my name around your neck,” Zeke says eventually, “but it’ll work.”

Mo rolls his eyes. “I have to shower now.” He starts to move off the couch but a hand on his hip stops him and he turns to look at Zeke again.

“Or I could just lick you clean.” Zeke licks his lips and if he weren’t already kneeling, Mo’s legs might give out. 

“I’ll still probably shower after,” Mo points out.

“I’ll join you.”

* * *

Mo abandons the sweatshirt on the floor before slipping into the shower with Zeke. It’s kind of cramped, but in a good way. Zeke’s hands are already lathered up and Mo squirms around him to get his hair wet before Zeke starts massaging the shampoo into his hair. 

“So,” Mo says as he revels in the feeling of Zeke’s hands scraping along his scalp, “all that name stuff…”

“What about it?” 

“I dunno.” Mo tilts his head forward back under the spray at a gentle push from Zeke. “Was kind of intense, I guess.” 

“Sorry,” Zeke says softly, embarrassed. 

“Don’t be sorry.” They trade spots, Zeke under the spray and Mo reaching for the shampoo. He has to lean up to reach Zeke’s hair, but it doesn’t bother him. “It’s nice.”

“Yeah?” Zeke asks as he dips his head to make it easier.

“Yeah.” Mo bites his bottom lip as he considers his next words. “I dunno, I always thought Presanti was a cooler name than Harris anyway.”

“Yeah?” Zeke asks again. He looks up slightly, and Mo brushes away a drop of suds that threatens to get in his eyes. “That’s good to know. For, uh, future reference.”

Mo grins. “Oh really?” 

Zeke kisses him, even though it gets suds in Mo’s hair and even though they don’t have a lot of time before the water will inevitably run cold. Mo’s soapy hands slip on Zeke’s shoulders as he tries to get a grip, while Zeke’s hands are firm on Mo’s hips.

“Yeah, really,” Zeke says against Mo’s lips. 

“Monroe Presanti _does_ sound pretty nice. Very official.”

“Way cooler than Zeke Harris.” Zeke tilts his head back to rinse out the suds and when he leans in to kiss Mo again, his hair is dripping wet over the both of them. “You’re serious, Mo?” Zeke whispers. The shower is almost loud enough to drown him out, if Mo weren’t pressed up against him from chest to thigh. 

“Yeah,” Mo says. “Dude, I kept wearing that fucking sweatshirt with your name on it even when we weren’t speaking. Even when I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” Mo doesn’t lean back to look at Zeke; he does steal another kiss though, gentle and damp and warm. 

“That’s true,” Zeke says with a laugh. “Don’t know why I was even worried.”


End file.
